King of Crime
by Squirrela
Summary: Willy Wonka. An exemplary businessman. As pure as the driven snow. Or is he?
1. Chapter 1

Hey, would you look at that; an update. As my profile states, I have many ideas for stories, I'm just bad about getting them to the place I feel they are ready for posting. I'm trying out something a little different here...

As always, if you recognise it from elsewhere, the chances are, it doesn't belong to me.

* * *

King of Crime

It was the perfect front. Who would ever believe the owner of Wonka Chocolate Incorporated a criminal? And honestly, I wasn't. I had never broken into anyone's house. I had never, personally, stolen anything. I was the one who pointed the finger though.

Charlie, such a dear, sweet, innocent little boy. Neither he, nor his family, know anything about my larger operation. He knows that there are areas that he doesn't have clearance for, as yet, but he knows nothing of the Under Factory Planning Suite: the UFPS, as we call it. Hmm... I really need to think of a more creative acronym for that area… Or we could simply call it 'The Underworld,' perhaps? I like that. Maybe I shall trial the name for a while. Anyway, that's where James, and I, meet with the Oompa-Loompas, study the information we've gathered, and plan our next heist.

It's all property crime, of course. The police are interested in crimes against people; they're not interested in crimes against property — they don't have the resources — and the less they're interested in our activities; the better I'm pleased. The Oompa-Loompas involved wear dark clothing, and what I call their 'War Paint.'

Oh! Did you think that orange was their natural skin colour? Or that their hair is naturally green and curly? No no! That impression was no more than the visible outcome of our latest safety protocol. There are so many layers of security involved it would take all week to explain it. I can tell you that it is based upon the concept of misdirection, though. As everything inside the Factory is.

Anyone who really knows me will tell you that you should never take anything you see at face value! There is always a plan, within a plan, within a plan. You see, when it comes to keeping my workers safe, misdirection is of paramount importance.

Safety and misdirection. Two major reasons I insisted that the disguise be worn inside the Factory on the day of the tour. Occasionally, some of the Oompa-Loompas have cause to discharge their day-to-day business outside the Factory. If the world focuses on the fact that my workforce have orange skin and green hair, then the press are less likely to follow a non-disguised Oompa-Loompa home. As a side benefit, if any pesky investigators managed to wangle their way inside the Factory along with the children; they would discover nothing. You should have seen the look on Charlie's trusting face when he saw his first Oompa-Loompa sans disguise. That memory shall stay with me for the rest of my days.

As I was saying, the disguise kept my workers safe. It was an extra layer of protection — hopefully not necessary, but I have never achieved anything by neglecting insignificant details which might not be necessary. It's not that I expected the police to want to hunt for criminals within my workers' ranks, but having not had such unfettered access to my Factory before the tour, they might well have thought it too good a chance to miss.

With the plan safely in place, anyone who did get in, or who heard the stories, would know that my workers were easily recognised. They had shocking green hair, and looked like they belonged in a Tango advert. You do remember those, don't you? They were so popular when they were aired — the antics of the orange man — Ah! If only you had heard the reaction of the Oompa-Loompas when I first floated the idea. It kept me laughing all week.

As you may have gathered, a variation of the disguise is worn by those working outside the Factory. It's darker — skin covered with purple paint; eyes shielded behind large, dark, infrared goggles; and teeth blotted out with dark mouth guards. The wig is a limp, dark blue bob; no curls or twirls anywhere. They carry small flashlights, with dark blue bulbs. The disguise has many purposes. As you might imagine, since our operations only occur at night, a dark disguise helps our workers blend into the background. Not being seen is one of our top priorities.

It's unbelievable, meaning that even if someone does spot an operative, it is less of an issue. The number of times escape has followed only because the person couldn't believe their eyes must equate to around a third of all operations. I'm sure you can imagine it. It's the middle of the night, you have had something to drink, or roused from a deep sleep, and you see someone with a purple face, an alien head-shape, and dark blue hair? Are you hallucinating? The War Paint really is that effective.

The face-paint itself also contains one of my special ingredients; one of my greatest achievements. The formula completely scrambles the genetic information of the person wearing it. In effect, it creates an entirely new persona.

If an operative is careless enough to cut themselves while out on a job, the crime will only be linked to them when they are wearing exactly the same amount of paint. A small amount more or less, and the results won't be close enough to be a match to either the real person's coding, or the one on file. This is why I have the Oompa-Loompas change the number of layers of paint they wear each day. It adds one extra layer of protection. And, as you can see, I'm all about layers of protection.

That's why I regularly donate to the police. It means I'm well-known to them and have several good friends within the force. They give me updates on what the money is being spent on — that way I can choose to donate extra to any cause I find particularly worthy, and I have an early warning system if any of our activities should garner their attention. Of course, none of them would ever give credence to any insinuation that I was a criminal. Such an upstanding member of the community? Preposterous! Well, would you have believed it, if I hadn't told you?

Our external activities, shall we call them, have been going on for almost as long as the business itself. On a smaller scale, of course. I have always had far too much time on my hands and have long been bored by the things that excited my contemporaries. Even when I began inventing on a larger scale, and had the business of running the Cherry Street shop to contend with, there wasn't nearly enough to interest me in that alone. That boredom was staved off by an event which brought me into closer contact with my now esteemed friend; known only, at that time, by the name "Titan."

I always have to stop myself from laughing whenever I think of that name. Anything less like a Titan I have yet to see. The boy was small and wiry. His face had an eerie pallor to it and there was a deep scar marring his cheek. I've never asked what caused it. Don't know; don't want to know.

Titan carried a knife, and, at the very least, was familiar with those experienced in their use. The inference? Titan had learned about how to use knives as weapons, however skilled in that area he himself might, or might not, be. This was something else I had no interest in learning more about.

The area I grew up in would be called 'seedy'. It was a regular haunt of gangs, and Titan was a well-known loner. Truth be told, I think even the gangs were wary of him, which is why he cut them a wide berth. He might come out on top against any one gang member; but to go against one was to go against them all, and to go against them all was tantamount to signing your own execution warrant.

I never understood why my family chose to live in this area. Middle, aspiring to Upper, Class family, builds a nice family home, right on the edge of the gang war zone? I think my father might have had links to the gangs, and was reluctant to move too far away from his background. Whatever the reason, I benefitted from the location.

I was known to the gangs: they respected me; and Titan, being an aspiring intellectual, followed in this trend. I like to think that it was for my ability to talk myself out of any situation, and debonair attitude. Who knows? Titan often referred to me as 'Mr. Suave' in those days, so it's possible that I'm right. It is possible that it was this that brought Titan to me; just at the moment the excrement became quintessentially poised: one oscillation away from amalgamating with his anatomy. Go ahead — parse that sentence for meaning! Anyway, returning to what I was saying, I do know that it was Titan's coming to me for help that kick started this whole adventure.

My word, was he in a panic that day?! Titan was a compulsive thief; regularly stealing items of little value and selling them on for small profits. This time, he had managed to pick up some expensive, diamond necklace. Do you remember the Hope Diamond? No, no! I'm not going to lay claim to the theft of that rock! Far too easy to prove that one way or another. However, someone with more money than sense had commissioned a smaller copy of the renowned bauble, and had had it set in a necklace with around a hundred other smaller diamonds. It was this that Titan had managed to get his hands on, and the rich owner was appealing for its return: getting caught would have meant real trouble for Titan and he needed someone who could help. No one would suspect me, but the small, skinny, scarred lad, already well-known for being an opportunistic pick-pocket? He was the perfect suspect.

I grasped the opportunity with glee. What a fantastic chance for me! I had around $250 to hand, which was a perfect sum to buy Titan off. It was far more than Titan had received for any of his other finds, and he thanked me, with real gratitude, for the immense riches I was giving him. I knew, however, that if I kept the necklace safe, I could safely expect a return of over $2000 on the loose stones in a few years' time. In due course, I more than doubled that expectation. Oh! And I still have the minature Hope Diamond. It's a fitting memento of my start in the business.

Included, as a key part of the deal, was the promise that I would become Titan's regular fence: a decision I have never regretted. Who would have thought that that skinny little thief would become my right-hand man? On the surface, Titan — James to you — owes everything to me. Without me, he wouldn't have a job. Without him though, ah, I would only be around as half as successful as I am. Worse, life would be boring.

Some might find it surprising that I, as a boy of fifteen years of age, had $250 to spend on stolen goods. Those people reckon without my keen interest in bettering myself, something my father spent many years nurturing. I had been running the forerunner of Wonka Chocolate Incorporated for over three years by that point. I sold confectionery to anyone who wanted to try it. Right back at the beginning, my father had taught me book-keeping; including everything from purchasing ingredients, to time spent, to electricity usage. My parents let me pay for the last mentioned by cooking three meals every week for the family. It was worth it, to my parents, to have the ability to finish work, come home, and relax; not having to worry about getting dinner sorted.

I kept strict notes on all of my creations, including shopping lists — with exact costs of ingredients, and how much each recipe made — the exact procedures used; time spent on things such as shopping and selling candies; notes about how popular different candies were; and time spent doing research. I'd talk with customers, have them do surveys to find out their views of what did and didn't work; what they were willing to pay, and how much that changed based on packaging, and whether I ran a sale. Don't you just love marketing? The data proved invaluable.

All of this my parents knew about. They were so proud of my achievements, especially seeing they believed that I donated the majority of my earnings, beyond a few dollars to 'pay' myself for time spent, to charities. My father saw the amounts paid in my carefully balanced book. What my parents didn't know about was my other set of books, that which I kept as 'working capital'. It wasn't that I would be begrudged this, although I'm sure that my father would have disapproved of the amounts involved. It was the thrill of knowing something others didn't; the risk that I might get caught. Have you ever experienced that delicious feeling of risking discovery? Hey! Don't knock it until you have tried it!

My father did know about my second bank account: one which had a savings account attached to it. I had needed him to help me set it up, after all. Father, being someone who believed in learning by experience, quickly accepted my explanation that I wanted to understand how transferring money worked, and some of the pitfalls involved. That way, if I did found a real business in the future, I would be well prepared to deal with more of the challenges involved. The feeling of being told, once again, how proud my father was of me, added to the tickle of delight at knowing I was up to something far different to what my upstanding, middle-class, father believed. This was too easy!

As previously mentioned, my father knew nothing about my second set of books. Here I kept track of what was in my second bank account. When I paid Titan that $250, it was a fraction of my working capital, and I was well pleased with the idea of the likely returns. I knew that with windfalls like this one was sure to be, it wouldn't take me too many years to make the money I required to purchase my first shop. This was the goal I was working towards.

Another influence in those early days came from the end of a novel written by Agatha Christie. _The Secret Adversary_ held one of the keys to my ambitions. In it, a man who seemed as pure as the driven snow, turned out to be the mastermind villain. Wouldn't it be wonderful to emulate him? The reason behind his decision to take the path he had, in the end, turned out to be the wish to prove that most petty criminals are stupid, but that an intelligent man could pull off an amazing crime, without raising the suspicions of anyone. His one mistake? To keep a written record of his thoughts pertaining to this. You wonder why I produced this budget, in that case? Once it has served it's purpose, a fiery fate awaits it; I can assure you of that.

This, then, was the reason behind my prolific reading — one could come across the most amazing ideas, find new things to challenge oneself with, within the pages of a book. I spent one day each week catching up on the news, and reading something written by an author I wasn't familiar with, to see which of their ideas I could turn to my benefit. It proved to be a most beneficial activity. You would be surprised just how many of my current operating procedures have their basis in something I have read in a book. I owe many of those authors my thanks...


	2. Chapter 2

I smile, pondering how proud my father was of me the day I took on my first mortgage, as he thought, and set up in my little shop on Cherry Street. His face hovers in my mind's eye, as I sit in my underground base of operations. Slowly the years drop off the image; the hair changes from brown to a sandy blond; the facial structure changes as cheeks lengthen; the green eyes turn blue.

Why am I now thinking of Charlie? Is it because he is as innocent as my father? As much as I would love to induct Charlie into all areas of my business, I will have to leave the underground sections to someone else. Maybe I shall have James pick a young ragamuffin off the streets one of these days. Oh how I wish I had found one of the other brats suitable to become my heir; then I wouldn't have this particular problem. Does that surprise you? Well I would happily induct any of them into the Factory Underworld. But Charlie? He is too good; too pure. He would be horrified if he had the mere inkling that this place existed. I will have to find another solution.

Eh-hem. My father thought that my first shop was the pinnacle of my career. There I was, a young man, having saved enough money during my schooling to take on my first mortgage - a three room upper flat, with small store below. Father smiled happily, as he watched me create hundreds of candies every evening and was loud in his congratulations when he saw me take on my first employees; people who would help man the shop floor. He knew little about the basement; the place I had kitted out to run my side business from.

Barely a year later I found I needed to take on another store. It was then I decided that it was time to make James respectable. He actually wasn't keen. To hear him talk respectability was some kind of awful disease. Eventually, after a good deal of discussion, he agreed that I could see if I had a job that he might enjoy. That was a no-brainer: I hired him as a runner, and as 'protection.'

However good he may or may not be with his knife he looked thug-like enough that most of the young hoodlums didn't dare to do anything to my stores once I took him on. Before that I was prey to regular broken windows. Not that law enforcement cared. There's no money to spare to deal with property crime — remember?

A sudden movement catches my eye. James is fidgeting. That's unusual. Is there something wrong with the man? Surely he would tell me if he were concerned about something?

I was astonished at just how quickly things progressed. Two stores turned into four; turned into six. I quickly found out that I was unable to make enough candy to meet the demand — even after raising the prices.

With many ideas in store for how to better myself, I decided to go for the long-term solution. I decided to open a Factory. The building would be immense, with so many hidden layers that only I knew just how big it was — most of the rooms would remain empty; for growth. The explanation that I was preparing for eventual expansion would keep my workers from suspecting that there might be another reason for the Factory being so large; an Underwotld that was flourishing even faster than the above-board side of the busines

I equipped the few rooms I would initially use with huge boilers and other common equipment: nothing too fancy. I planned to take on many workers to run the place, then, as time went on, I would create machines. Glorious machines; beyond the imagination of so many of my peers. This would stimulate my imagination and keep me interested in what I was doing.

I was now employing many locals. At times I felt like I might employ half the working age population. It was therefore impossible for me to investigate every employee — and keep all the histories up to date. The unfortunate thing about candy is that it's impossible to patent. The common view is that it's possible for anyone to come up with anything in making treats, so several people could all discover the same thing. Therefore you cannot patent any recipe. There has to be something in the process that is unique. So heating this set of ingredients, to that temperature, at this point in the process, for that amount of time, might be enough for the patent office to pass a patent on one kind of candy, but it would likely prove more trouble than it was worth; for most people, at least.

Patenting was one reason I was so invested in making machines. Machines could do things with a consistency that humans couldn't and could do things in ways that were difficult for us to mimic. Using machines, I might get my patents.

I was heartbroken when, a few months before I was ready to begin working on this part of the project, my competitors suddenly started to sell my best ideas. Things I was sure no one had known how to do before I had tested and refined the processes. These days, James is well-known at the patent office; he has skirmishes with them every week. He wins most of them too. He knows the entire process inside out — almost as well as I know my candy. I really must have him instruct Charlie in how this side of the business works soon. It will give the young lad something else to focus on; keep him too busy to realise that The Underworld side of the business exists...

On discovering the perfidy of my workers I quickly realised that, if I wanted to save my business, I was going to have to take desperate measures. It was impossible to know who to trust. There was only one person who I was willing to take at face value and even he, I treated with kid-gloves for a while.

James had taken the thefts as a personal affront; an insult to his integrity; a slight to his skills. He apologised every time he saw me. This despite my assuring him that he was not culpable; he wasn't even employed to work in that section of the Factory; he had never seen those rooms. He was protection for the buildings; not security for the things stored inside them. I had no cause to suspect him — the copycats were loud in their derision of his upbringing, and he despised them in return.

That they had stolen a march on us, appalled him. In short, he was as upset at the whole affair as I was. The truth was, I realised as I pondered the situation, I couldn't trust anyone else; not even those employed in my shops could be free from suspicion. It was all too easy for someone who worked in the Factory to hand something to those outside of suspicion, in one of the shops, and for them to pass the information onto my competitors.

Given I eventually wanted to have a complete overhaul of how the Factory functioned and I could see my entire business disappearing down the pipes, I decided I would shut it all down. Would you have done any differently? I couldn't trust my workers, other than Titan; who wouldn't have employment if it wasn't for me, so I wouldn't employ them. That way I could turn my attention to my beloved machines (and begin working up even better candies than I had before), and James could turn his attention onto the other side of the business. That way, if anyone had the slightest suspicion that Wonka Candy was tied into such inauspicious behaviours, those ideas would quickly die a death.

The day I closed everything down was a sad day. After ransacking the cellar of the Cherry Street shop, and making sure that all evidence that could not be removed to the Factory Underworld was destroyed, I sold off all the shops to outsiders. That saved a good two-thirds of the jobs in the end. Those employed in the Factory itself though, those I had to let go. Remembering this day, I see the betrayal in Charlie's eyes again. I saw it when I shouted at him, on the day we first met, and I see it in my minds eye now. "You gave up on us; you let us down!" they accuse me. It was that look that convinced me that even as I chose him to be my heir, I could never bring him down here. That look of betrayal would be magnified tenfold if he ever saw this section of the Factory.

My head jerks up, as James practically fidgets himself out of his chair. He offers his apologies and admits that he cannot locate his Factory wallet. That's concerning — not only does that wallet hold the security pass James uses to get in here, it holds vital information regarding how this part of the business operates. James knows never to leave the Factory with it in his pocket; he has an 'outside' wallet for things such as expenses when he is out and about. A quick mental glance through the highlights of the last few hours, as we planned the meeting we are going to have this evening, reminded me that we had entered The Underworld together, therefore I had scanned my pass for us both to enter.

People often make the mistake of believing that James uses one of the above ground routes out of the Factory when he goes on business trips for me. They couldn't be more wrong. It wasn't by especial design that James met Charlie in that tunnel once the boy located his ticket you know... That tunnel has a porthole, with an iron cover; you would think it a bank vault. You have to undo the valve before the hub will open. It opens into one of the Factory escape ports – We have to have some emergency exits just like everyone else, you know. Everyone believes that the hub is part of the water or gas network. But my operatives know that, after a glance at the camera to make sure that the tunnel is empty, they can initiate the security precautions from the inside passageway, and exit the Factory to the world outside.

For those returning to the Factory the lock has sensors on the grips that recognise whether you are wearing Wonka-War-Paint; the official name for the face paint all operatives wear when out on a job. James always puts a spot of skin coloured paint on his thumbs before he leaves the building. The chemicals in the paint are recognised by the sensor, which clicks off the security lock function, allowing the wheel to turn freely. These precautions make it perfectly safe for us to use the porthole as an alternate way in and out of the Factory. It adds layers to our security. It's also far enough away from the main buildings that no one beyond ourselves knows that we are connected to it and it's so convenient for our operatives to duck into the dark tunnel and disappear...

James draws my attention again. Enough is enough. "Then stop fidgeting and go find it!" I bark. Without a word, James hurries from the room. The wallet has to be in the Factory. If it isn't... That idea is too disastrous to contemplate. The whole scheme could go up in smoke. Surely it couldn't; not just as we were beginning our third wave of operations. Maybe I don't have to worry about Charlie finding out about this part of the Factory too much. The whole ship may go down before he comes close.

The Factory closed; I began making machines; James built up his network of contacts; and we slowly prepared to take over the entire city. I was of no mind to give the denizens of the city another chance. They had had one, and they sold us up the river. I was therefore delighted when I came across the Oompa-Loompas. Doubly so when the first thing that they did was to effortlessly relieve me of my passport. When I rescued them from the Vermicious Knids they handed it back to me, abashed.

I was enraptured. This find more than made up for the lack of enjoyable tropical flavours. These people would be an asset to both sides of my business. They were fantastic at stealing, and adored Cacao Beans. My excitement was unparalleled. Quickly I made my offer of a place to stay in safety. If some of them learned the art of candy making, others could continue to perfect the thievery that their mischievous nature loved, and my crime empire could continue to grow and flourish. Given my disdain for the people whose betrayal could have led to my ruination, I had no compunction about raising the level of crime in the area. It served them right.

The Oompa-Loompas accepted my offer post-haste and within weeks they were installed inside the Factory. James was thrilled at the influx of troops for his division of the business. Life in the Factory, at this time, was a bewildering array of bodies and half-completed tasks. Can you imagine the way we bustled about? I focussed on creating beauty in the upper rooms; mimicking the tropical climate that my new workers came from; revelling in the thrill of creating areas that would remind them of their homeland, out of candy. I was exhilarated when this thus stimulated their love for making candy even further.

Meanwhile they took charge of their sleep areas; transforming those in ways I would never have imagined. They also converted the basement Underworld. We made use of the huge underground caverns that littered the area already, but the Oompa-Loompas effected a metamorphose; changing the rocky caves into steam-laden caverns supplied by hot springs. The effect altered the atmosphere of the location and I loved it.

We conducted our business in the futuristic pod at the side. It was a large, climate controlled, glass capsule filled with computers, and the equipment we used to manage our activities; looking out across the well-lit cavern where those off duty could relax in the warm water, as it flowed out to the lake on the outskirts of the town. With the work in this area completed I truly felt like the King of the Underworld. Ah Charlie. Sweet boy. Honest as the day is long. He will never know the feeling that this place engenders.

Things went on like this for years. I was content... I was bored. I needed to do something more. I couldn't do much with the Underworld though. We weren't ready for further expansion in this area; it would be months before we were ready for that. Then I realised. I could expand the upper levels. Pull the public eye onto us again; court the thrill of possible discovery. I could start preparing for the future.

It was time to scour the world. My challenge? Find one gem amongst the rabble; someone I could take on as an apprentice. I would bring them into the business, and add to the aura of respectability that made so much difference to our Underworld activities. The right person would make all the difference in the world.

I had so much energy during those days running up to the tour. The possibilities were endless. Then, as each ticket was found, so much disappointment. These children were idiots. Self-obsessed and greedy. There didn't seem to be much danger in dragging them round. It didn't look like the parents were that good at controlling them though — they didn't seem interested in doing so. Can you imagine the frustration I felt as I realised this fact? Why choose to become a parent if you aren't interested in parenting your child? I sighed before concluding that I had better put some damage control measures in place.

I found last boy intriguing though. Much as I found myself despising most of those who located a ticket; I had to concede that the local boy might have potential. He was local though, and, despite my deciding to give one of them a chance, I couldn't help feeling biased against him. All locals were tarred with the brush of avarice. That meant he was as disasterous a possibility as the other children seemed to be. At first glance it seemed that my decision was going to resolve itself into working out which child was the best of a bad bunch. Did it have to though? Maybe I wouldn't pick any of them. There was no shame in deciding against every last one of them, if they weren't likely to fit in. I would have to wait to meet the children, so that I could really see what they were all made of.

And what they were made of was dross. In the end I chose Charlie, simply because he loved the Factory. He loved the Factory and everything it stood for. That meant that I could trust him with the Factory - he would never do anything to harm it. He would also bring that aura of respectability I required. And there was the excitement of the possibility that he might stumble across something he shouldn't. I laugh in derision. Charlie is far too good a boy to go down any corridors he has been told not to enter!

My quick ears catch the sound of young voices. What are the Oompa-Loompa younglings doing down here? I glance at the time. They should be in their Pick-Pocket-Gym class now. Hmmmm.

A group of around six of them tumble into the room, pulling Charlie along with them; securely blindfolded. James trailed in behind them, echoing disappointed recriminations in their wake; his blustering admonitions fell on deaf ears, as the urgency of their task consumed them.

"What is this about?" I ask, not wanting to say too much with Charlie in the room. I smirk with satisfaction, as the youngsters shiver.

"Well, you see, Sir," the oldest of the younglings began explaining. "We invited Charlie to our gym class, without telling him about the extra-curricular activities involved. As part of the fun, I picked his pocket. At the end of the first exercise, the teacher requested that we take out our 'earnings'. Charlie looked around the room, as I pulled his gloves out of my pocket. Then he asked a curious question."

I raised my eyebrow. What did Silvanimo find curious?

"Sir, he asked whether she was just talking about earnings over the last quarter-hour. When she confirmed that this was the case, he pulled out things belonging to half the class.

"The babel in the room at the sight of this, quite deafened me, but once I was able to think again, I asked what he had meant by his question. He showed me these, sir"

Silvanimo, who had been standing with his hands behind his back, now presented them for my inspection, with a flourish. In the right was James' Factory wallet, and in the left, the fountain pen I had misplaced around a week previously.

I barely registered James spluttering in outrage, as I turned my gaze onto Charlie, wondering what on earth he was going to say about this. Noticing that he was still wearing the blindfold I removed it, before looking at him questioningly.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Well did you think I avoided anaemia scraping by on what my Mom earned, Willy?" he asked. "That's the thing about looking so innocent. No one suspects you might steal anything. And if you were to ever be caught? Turning into a weeping pile of mush tends to disarm reproof. 'He only did it because he was so hungry; he knows better now,' they would say."

I dropped my head into my hands and laughed. Charlie's proclamation had stopped me in my tracks. That trustworthy, innocent, little boy indeed!? This changed everything.

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Once again, my thanks to everyone who has read this, most especially to Turrislucidus, and MattTheWriter072, for reviewing. Turrislucidus: Heres hoping; incinerator wise. MattTheWriter072: It wasn't quite complete, but it is now. Hopefully that answers your questions! I also hope that the ending of this short story pleases.


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